All The World's A Fair
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: That's the thing though, he thinks, as he sits there. Not everyone understands what it means to truly accept someone for who they are on the inside, and not the outside.


**A/N: My muse decided it wanted to go after Logan again, so here goes nothing. CI's not mine. **

* * *

He watches the storm. The funny thing about the city is that he can never see the sky clearly at night, but for some reason, he can always see the storms quite clearly. And it bothers him sometimes, because every now and then, he'd like to be able to see something that doesn't normally signify destruction and what not, but he'll take what he can get. He learned a long time ago that it's usually the best way to go, and has found that it still works, even now. The lightning fills the darkened apartment, and he looks at the shadows cast by the momentary flash.

This is life as he knows it, and he knows this, and wishes sometimes that it would change, but it hasn't so far, and he doubts it ever will. And so he sits, and stares at the black and white keys in front of him, wondering if he really wants to play, because it's kind of late, and while no one ever seemed to object before, he can't help but wonder if they will on this night, because the storm is causing enough trouble and noise as it is.

He wonders what it is that drives people to do the things they do, and is glad that he isn't with Wheeler right now, because this particular case is one of those things that he just wants to mull over by himself, and not have his partner, or their captain, talking in his ear, trying to tell him what to think and how to feel, because that isn't how it works, and if anything ticks him off, that's it right there. So he stares at the keys some more, and then reaches for one of the random music books that he has there in front of him, and starts to play.

He can remember their suspect, who turned out to be their doer, standing there, beneath the metal globe that had been made for the World's Fair when it had been held in New York City. He can remember the movements, the acting out of the murder. He can remember thinking that this kid better watch it before he actually does slam Wheeler's head into the pavement. But he hadn't said anything out loud, and the kid had been careful, and later on, Wheeler had shrugged when she'd been asked what it was like, playing the victim, and Mike had said nothing, again, because there really wasn't anything else to say. For some reason, this seems more confusing than anything else so far.

And yet, at the same time, it almost makes sense. There are so many different groups in this city, so many different cultures, that it seems almost laughable that any one particular group wouldn't get along with another. And yet, it happens, happens because people don't understand, because they have preconceived ideas about the way other people are, because they haven't learned anything else. And those who have learned, well…Mike stares hard at the keys of the piano as he plays, partly so that he won't screw up, and partly so that he doesn't have to concentrate on anything else. But it doesn't work. He already plays the piece from memory, childhood memory, because his cousin had prodded him into taking the lessons along with her, and he'd done it, just to get away from his own house.

He knows all too well what it feels like to want to escape. To feel like wanting to find a path all his own, without someone in his ear telling him which way he should go. He'd wanted to save the world once, as a child, and could remember playing the games with other kids in the neighborhood, pretending they were superheroes, invincible, with nothing that could get in their way. But they had all become jaded as they'd grown older, they'd grown into themselves, into the lives they had to lead, because there was nothing else they could do. And soon the games had ended, and they had all gone their own separate ways, and they'd all had their parents in their ears, telling them what they should do, where they should go. Living their own dreams through their children, the way he swore he'd never do if he had children of his own, which really doesn't seem likely, not now, not with what he has just seen.

And he thought his own parents were bad. He can only imagine what it's like to be held back the way the two victims in this case were. Unable to receive the blessings of their families, because neither side liked the other. Unable to hint at any sort of relationship, because all it would do was cause trouble. One side was controlling, the other side was more so. Two children, who'd wanted nothing more to please their parents while at the same time wanting to find their own paths. Two lives, wasted, because of honor, because of rage, because of everything in between, and everything outside the spectrum. Because neither side would compromise, neither side would give in, and in the end, the two victims turned out to be the most innocent ones.

It goes this way a lot, Mike thinks, and reaches out with one hand to turn the pages, and the song he's playing, because the first one has come to an end, and he's still not tired, doesn't think he can sleep, and doesn't want to stop playing. He knows he'll have to, sooner or later, knows that if Wheeler gets it into her mind that maybe he'll want to talk, that she'll show up, and the sound of the piano will throw her for a loop, and it makes him laugh, out loud, because Barek knew about it, but Wheeler was no Barek, and as he continues to play, he can't help but hope that if there is a knock on the door, he'll open it to find Barek standing there on the other side, because she's really the first partner since Briscoe that's actually understood him…not counting Silvera.

Innocence is an enigma in and of itself, it has different meanings, and he knows this. Knows that just because one man is innocent of one thing, it doesn't mean he's innocent of something else, but that's just how it is around here: Everyone is innocent until they're proven guilty in a court of law, but there really isn't anyone to prove guilty here anymore, because it's already been done. The first victim's brother killed her, the second victim's murderer was quite obvious, and this life on the streets is starting to wear him down, slowly, because he's getting tired of seeing all that he does. It's almost starting to scare him in that way that he thinks that if this is really the way the world is going, he doesn't want to have any part of it, but he isn't dead yet himself, and so he doesn't have a choice.

Mike wonders for a moment, as he continues to play, what drives people to hate, and decides that he really doesn't want to go there, because it'll just drive him nuts, because no one can ever really know for sure. And he knows that he's hated before, knows that he still has the capacity to hate people, just because, or because he actually has a reason for hating them, and it bothers him. Once upon a time, before his mother's slow descent into the bottle, she'd taught him that hate was a strong emotion, but sometimes…sometimes...Most of the time, he thinks now, there is no other emotion to feel.

The ironic part of it is that their first victim was left in a place that was supposed to signify unity, and peace. Under a globe with all the countries in the world represented, because it was for the World's Fair, and people from all over the world had been there. He can almost imagine what it was like, one day where most people from different parts of the world got along, where no one hated anyone, at least, not to their faces, and maybe, possibly, not even at all, despite whatever might've been going around at the time. He can imagine as he plays a place where no one has a problem with anyone, and a place where one has no need to be afraid to love, because there is no issue between his side and the one he loves.

But life is such that no one can figure out much of anything without a long, hard battle before them. It is such that he knows that the world faces the same fight before anything changes, before anything begins to change, and he wants it to, more than anything, after seeing this one, because it needs to. But he doubts the world will learn it anytime soon, because people are too set in their ways, too set in their roots, to want to learn it, to want to believe something other than what they have been taught. To want something more than what they know, to find a way to get what they want, keep their families happy, and at the same time, keep things like this from happening.

Of course, Mike thinks, and hits a wrong note as he does, effectively ending his playing for the moment, there are those few out there, like those victims who've lost their lives during this case, who do want the change. Who do want to believe something else, and who do want something more than what they have, because somewhere along the line, they realized that they are more than they think they are.

He leans back on the piano bench then, knowing that if he leans back any further he'll fall, but he's beyond caring, because it doesn't matter, and he's pretty sure he can take hitting his head more than he can take any more of what this case has brought along. But that's the problem with this life, he thinks, people think they can do whatever they want, say whatever they want, and heaven only knows they have the right to do so, but only until their liberties started infringing on someone else's. And he laughs, because apparently, some of those history lessons did stick around, and he remembers them, and remembers this, because it is one of the man things he's had to learn along the way.

Then again, he muses, there's the other problem. Not everyone remembers, and not everyone cares.

And to a good part of the population, life is nothing but a circus…and all the world's a fair.


End file.
